IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT
by Scarlet Garter
Summary: Chance and Winston encounter a young woman trying to make her way home on a...well, what the title says. A Halloween treat, or maybe a trick. One-shot.


10

The author does not own the characters from Human Target and makes no claim there-to. She is humbly grateful for the opportunity to play with them.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: some of you will be familiar with the urban legend this story is based upon. If so, please don't spoil the suspense for those who are not. You who have read my earlier stories will recognize Julia the Witch. If she is a stranger to you, although she is but a very small part of this tale, I recommend the story -BROOM TALE to make her acquaintance. And now, just in time for Halloween…. 

IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

The party ended very abruptly.

One moment it was 11:55 PM. A great harvest moon cast its mellow glow over Lincoln Park where Endora's pre-Halloween Gala's mostly mortal guests partied at a safe distance from the coven's Gingerbread Cottage. Music played, guests danced or played hide-and-seek beneath drifting Chinese lanterns, or toasted marshmallows and sipped champagne. Five minutes later, as a distant clock-tower tolled the final stroke of midnight, the guests had departed, the bonfire was out, and the tables laden with party fare were folded up and carted off. It was as if a magic wand had whisked away every trace of the revelries. Maybe, Chance mused as he and Winston paused beside their car, that was exactly what happened. When Julia the Witch was involved, you just never knew.

"Good night, Julia," Winston said to the young woman whose arm entwined with Chance's. "Tell Endora I had a great time."

"Tol'ja you would," Julia replied. "But she'll be happy to hear you enjoyed yourself." Despite Winston's initial reluctance to attend a costume party, he'd spent most of the evening keeping company with the Golden Gate coven's elegant president, Endora.

Winston removed the huge turban set with a glass ruby the size of a hen's egg and placed it in the back seat of the car they'd rented. The turban was part of the "Punjab the Wizard" costume he'd selected, along with two giant hoop ear-rings, an embroidered vest and sash, and great balloon-leg pantaloons. Thrust in the sash was a plastic scimitar that looked surprisingly real.

Chance wore a tuxedo, with wads of Monopoly money exploding from every pocket. He was dressed as Daddy Warbucks-like Punjab the Wizard, a character from the _Little Orphan Annie_ comic strip-but couldn't quite bring himself to appear in a bald wig or shave his own head to more closely approximate the character he'd chosen to emulate. "Pretend I'm a very young Daddy Warbucks," he'd told Julia.

Now, a few minutes past midnight on the morning of October 31, a thick fogbank swept into the park. The moon disappeared as if someone had thrown a switch. The temperature dropped ten degrees and continued falling. A few paces away, immune to the chill, Cedric-Julia's riding broom in horse form-lowered his head to crop grass.

"I'm sorry Guerrero and Ilsa couldn't come," Julia said. "I wanted to give Ilsa this." She withdrew something from the inner folds of her traditional witching cape. The object sparkled and shimmered despite the lack of moonlight. "Would you give it to her for me?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"It's a stole." Julia gave the object a flip and it unfolded itself into a length of gossamer black lace interwoven with tiny points of silver. She gave it another flip and it settled around her shoulders almost as if it were alive. "It'll go beautifully with that vampire costume she'll be wearing tonight. Keep her warm, too."

Chance frowned. They were providing security for a fund-raiser Halloween party at Cliff House that evening. "She's not going as a vampire. She's going as Thelma Todd." He named a movie actress from the 1930's, known as the Ice Cream Blonde, whose untimely death remained an unsolved mystery. Chance wasn't thrilled at her choice, but it gave him the opportunity to appear as Groucho Marx, the cigar-chomping, eye brows-wagging comedian with whom Thelma made the movie _Horse Feathers_ in 1932. The thought made him glance over Julia's shoulder at Cedric, with whom he carried on a love-hate relationship.

Julia smiled. "Wanna bet?" she asked, drawing Chance back to the moment. She refolded the stole, handed it to him, stood on tip-toe and kissed his cheek. "G'night, Chance. See you in my dreams." With a swirl of skirts, she swung to Cedric's back. Cedric took several cantering strides and launched himself into the sky.

Winston settled into the passenger seat. "I will never get used to seeing her do that," he said. His eyes followed Julia's form silhouetted against a sudden opening in the clouds.

Chance grinned as he placed the stole in the back seat. "You should try being on his back when they go airborne. First time it happened, I nearly lost my supper."

"An' you a pilot." Winston 'tsked' and shook his head in mock despair. "Hey, turn the engine on, man. Get some heat going. It's like a refrigerator in here!"

The "here" they were in was a beautifully restored 1933 Buick four-door sedan, which the company had rented for Ilsa's arrival at Cliff House. Chance couldn't resist driving it to Endora's Halloween party. Although the vehicle was more than 80 years old, its engine purred like a well-fed panther.

Chance set the heater on HIGH and put the Buick in gear. It _was_ chilly in the car. No car-seat heaters in a 1930s automobile. He held his fingers in front of one of the air vents. Air was coming out, but it wasn't the warmth that the high setting should provide. Apparently the "No Draft Ventilation" the old car boasted also produced No Heat.

"Huh," Winston grunted, folding his arms across his chest. "What's wrong with this heap? Don't they check 'em out before letting the next customer have them?"

"I guess they forgot to check this one. I'll take it back in the morning and have them look at it."

"If we're not both dead of pneumonia by then."

By the time they reached the park exit, they needed the windshield wipers. Chance couldn't believe the weather had changed so abruptly. On the other hand, maybe he could. If Endora didn't want her party spoiled by inclement weather, the regal witch could doubtless cast a spell to prevent it.

Fog mixed with rain produced a glare from the Buick's dinner plate-sized headlamps. So at first Chance wasn't quite sure what he was seeing as he rolled up to the corner of Geary and 34th Avenue. Something dim and shadowy…. Then he saw it was someone standing beside a telephone booth.

"Uh-oh," Winston said. "What's that?"

"Looks like someone in a trench coat," Chance replied as he coasted past. A woman, he realized, and stepped on the brake.

It was late. Too late for a woman to be out alone. With the rain becoming a steady downpour, her chances of getting a taxi any time soon weren't good.

"We better see if we can help."

She could be "bait", an accomplice hoping to lure the unsuspecting motorist into a car-jacking. Chance smiled at the idea. Any car-jackers trying to take this vehicle would be in for the surprise of their lives.

But she probably was just what she appeared to be, a young woman alone on a street corner where a callous date had dropped her following a disagreement. Chance put the car in reverse. Winston rolled down his window to get a better look.

The figure emerging in the tail-lights' crimson glow proved to be young, female, and attractive in spite of the fresh-looking abrasion marring one delicate cheek. A few wispy strands of silvery-blond hair drooped from below her crumpled fedora. She wore loose-legged trousers with one knee ripped, and a sodden thigh-length jacket with a large dark stain on one sleeve. She was growing wetter by the minute. She looked sad and lost, and exhausted.

"Do you need help? " Winston asked. "Can we give you a lift?" She made no move to approach the car. No surprise there. What woman in her right mind would come within grabbing range of a car with two strange men in it?

"Thank you. It's kind of you to offer," she replied, "but my ride will be along any minute."

Not very likely, Chance thought.

"And your mama taught you never to take rides from strangers," Winston said. He held out his wallet, opened to the police detective shield he'd never quite gotten around to turning in. "We may look like we just walked out of a bad movie, but we've been to a costume party. I promise, we're not bad-guys. "

The young woman examined his wallet, turned it to see it better in the headlight beams, then returned it. "I telephoned my aunt. She said she'd come and get me, but that was almost an hour ago. She must be having car trouble. Her old Run-about is terribly unreliable."

Chance produced his cell phone. "Want to call again and see what's wrong? Let her know you've got a ride if you want one?"

Winston passed her the phone. She took it, peered at it, then handed it back. "I'm sorry, I don't know how this works."

Winston glanced over his shoulder at Chance, who shrugged. "Just like any other cell-phone," Winston said. "Press the buttons and hit SEND."

No response. "Never mind, tell me the number and I'll dial it." When he heard the ringing start, he handed the phone back to the woman, who raised it to her ear as if afraid it had fangs.

After a time she said, "Aunt Mary? It's me, Lillian. I'm on my way home. Two kind gentlemen are giving me a ride." Pause. "Yes, I know." Pause. "I'm quite certain. One is a police detective. His name is Lavern Winston. The other is .…"

"A body-guard," Chance supplied.

"Yes, Aunt Mary. I remember. I'll be home soon. Good bye."

Winston got out and opened the rear passenger door. Lillian seated herself. Winston closed the door behind her, then climbed back into the front seat.

"Okay," Chance said, "Where do we need to take you?"

She gave him an address in Pacifica, some fifteen miles away. After a few minutes, Chance asked, "What happened to you? That cheek looks pretty raw."

"My bicycle hit something and I crashed," Lillian said, her voice sounding faint and weary. "Aunt Mary always says I'm too much the hoyden. I thought I could find a bus-stop, so I started walking…. It's so cold."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Winston said. "Stupid heater isn't working right. Hey, Chance, can she use that stole Julia sent for Ilsa?"

"Sure. Lillian, there's a stole somewhere on the seat. You can wrap up in that if you'd like."

Chance heard rustling sounds as Lillian slipped out of her coat and snuggled into the stole.

"That's better," she said. "Oh, yes, it _is_ warm. I've been cold for so long…. Thank you."

The next time Chance spoke, she didn't reply. Winston glanced into the back seat. "Out like a light," he said. "Poor kid."

"What was that business with the phone?" Chance asked. "You'd think she's never seen one before."

"She's dressed kinda old-fashioned, too, unless it's a costume," Winston said. "Must be some kind of religious nut. Who else would be riding around on a bicycle this time of night?"

"We didn't see any bicycle."

"Said she crashed. Didn't say where. And that she'd been walking."

Miles passed quickly on the deserted highways. Soon overhead signs began announcing Pacifica exits. "Lillian? We're almost there," Chance said. " Where do we turn off?"

No reply. Winston glanced into the back seat. "She's still asleep. I hate to wake her. What address did she give? Let me have your phone again. I'll call it up on MapQuest."

The address proved to be Shady Grove Village, a dark and shabby trailer park tucked out of sight in the hills surrounding Milagra Creek. Pulling into the park, Chance had the eerie sensation they'd somehow blundered back in time. These were no elegant double- and triple-wide mobile homes or high-end RVs. The trailers were mostly single-wides and a handful of Airstreams and Spartinettes behind peeling picket fences or overgrown oleander hedges. Still, most of them had Direct TV receivers mounted on them, and the cars parked in the car-ports were reasonably modern.

"Do you remember the space number?" Chance asked.

"I don't think she said."

Just beyond the main entrance was a billboard directory listing residents' names and space numbers. Chance got out to study it, but came back shrugging his shoulders. "No telling which one's hers without a last name," he told Winston. "We'll have to wake her up."

Winston shifted to speak to their passenger, and saw only an empty seat. "Hey, where'd she go?"

Chance opened the rear passenger door. "What do you mean? She's right there-"

But she wasn't. Chance's head snapped left, then right. All he saw was a pair of glowing green eyes disappearing behind someone's trashcan.

"When did she get out? Did she say anything?"

"Not to me," Winston said, rubbing the gooseflesh on his arms. "How'd she get out without makin' any noise? These doors sound like a vault slamming shut."

"Well, she did," Chance said. Winston must have dozed off and not heard her leave. But then, he hadn't, either, and Winston was right about the noise the Buick's doors made. "She can't have gotten far…. I don't like this. She could have hit her head when her bike crashed, wandered off when we stopped. We better cruise the park. See if we can find her or someone still up we can ask where she and her aunt live."

The park residents all seemed to have turned in for the night. Few porch lights burned. Curtains and shades were drawn. Here and there a television's blue glow edged a window, but Chance hesitated to bother anyone whose porch light was dark.

He was about to look for the manager's office to see if he could rouse someone, when he spotted a brilliantly lighted yard. "Over there," he said, and drove toward the light.

It was one of the older model trailers, with the curved, streamlined corners of the 1950s era. Wooden steps led up to a home-made porch. A battered Jeep Wrangler filled the car-port-Aunt Mary's 'Run-about', Chance guessed. Open curtains revealed a knotty-pine kitchen/living area. The figure of a woman moved away from the window. A moment later the door opened.

Chance had been expecting a rather plump, frumpish matron to emerge, but when the woman entered the light on the porch, he saw she was anything but. She looked to be in her mid- to late-forties and was dressed in jeans and a Raiders sweatshirt. Her hair was done up in a chignon. Without doubt they had found Aunt Mary. Subtract thirty years and she'd be Lillian's twin.

Both men exited the Buick. The approached the trailer slowly, Chance somewhat in the lead. He spotted Aunt Mary's twitching lips and realized what a sight they-or at least Winston in his pantaloons-must be.

"Hello," the woman said. "I'm Mary White. You must be Detective Winston and…the bodyguard. I've been expecting you."

"Um, actually, I'm the bodyguard," Chance said and stepped to one side to gesture at Winston. "This is Detective Winston. We don't always look this strange. We were at a party earlier. And…we seem to have lost Lillian. Has she come home? Is she all right?"

Mary's lips tightened. She pushed the door farther open and stepped back. "I think you'd better come inside."

"Is she here?" Chance asked. "She was sound asleep when I stopped to check the park directory, but when I came back to the car, she was gone. We didn't see which way she went, and we've been all over the park, trying to find her or your space."

Although Mary seemed to be listening attentively, Chance had the odd impression his explanation was something she'd heard before. Maybe Lillian had a habit of running away; her bike accident a made-up story.

"She had a pretty nasty mark on her face, like she'd smacked into something hard," Winston said. "She didn't seem confused or disoriented, like she had a concussion, but we can't figure out how she disappeared."

"She had far worse than a concussion," Mary White said. "Her skull was fractured. She never regained consciousness."

"What? There must be some mistake," Chance said. "She spoke to us. She rode with us all the way from Lincoln Park. By the way, what was she doing so far from home so late at night with only a bicycle for transportation?"

"There's no mistake. She was staying overnight with a friend who lived near Lincoln Park. They spent the day riding together. They were only a few blocks her friend's house when-"

"There wasn't any friend with her," Chance said. "She was all alone."

"I don't get it," Winston said. "What do you mean, her skull was fractured? I think you'd better let us speak to her."

"I wish I could," Mary White said, "but Lillian was killed in 1953. The 'Aunt Mary' she speaks of was my mother."

"Okay, this is just too weird," Winston said. "Are you trying to say we _imagined_ giving someone a lift here from Lincoln Park?"

"And we imagined her using my cell phone to call you and tell you we were bringing her home?"

More likely, Chance thought, the woman was a lunatic. Living out here in this creepy trailer park, alone, lonely, she was the one imagining things. Lillian was probably a neighbor. They needed to get out of here and find the park manager. Find Lillian.

"Oh, no. The phone call was very real. Check your call records."

Mary crossed the room to a closet and opened the door. She lifted out a tan, thigh-length jacket enclosed in a dry-cleaner's transparent bag so old and brittle it rattled like desiccated weeds. "Is this the coat she was wearing?"

Chance studied it. "Looks like it. But hers is soaking wet."

"And has a big grease-stain on it." Winston added.

"That was blood, not a grease-stain," Mary said.

"She took it off to wrap up in Ilsa's stole, remember?" Winston said.

"That's right. Let's see if she left it in the car."

The men left the trailer, their shoes loud on the wooden stair steps. A gust of wind sent a discarded shopping bag sailing down the street. A huge cottonwood tree shed a dusting of waterlogged leaves as they crossed the yard. Mary followed a few paces behind.

"Nothing," Chance said, stepping to one side so the others could see the back seat. "Looks like Ilsa's stole is gone, too. She must have taken it with her, wherever she went."

"I can show you where she goes," Mary said. "Perhaps then you'll understand. We'll need to take my Jeep. That beautiful behemoth you're driving would never make it across Ten Mile Wash."

Chance and Winston exchanged glances. Winston shrugged. "Lead the way," Chance said.

Rain pattered on the Jeep's cloth top, an erratic drizzle now light, now heavy, as Winston clambered into the back and Chance took the front passenger seat. Mary backed the Jeep from its car-port with a taut precision.

Some two miles from the park, they took an all-but-invisible turn-off onto a graveled road heading inland. It was a dark, winding road that disappeared into a sandy arroyo. Mary put the Jeep in four-wheel drive.

"Hang on," she called as they barreled across Ten Mile Wash.

On the opposite side, the trail became little more than twin ruts, an old wagon or stagecoach road that might, on a hot summer day, have been a pleasant, quiet track, a shady respite granted by the interlacing branches of cottonwood trees intermixed with willows. Tonight it was more like a tunnel through which the Jeep jolted and lurched, the wind-whipped branches plucking at it, pointing accusing fingers at the passengers.

What, Chance wondered, had they gotten themselves into?

Rounding one last curve, Mary pulled the Jeep to the edge of the trail and stopped. Straining to see through the rain-streaked windows, Chance suddenly realized where they were. A cemetery.

Leaving the headlights on, Mary got out and stood waiting for Chance and Winston to join her.

"This better be good," Winston muttered. "I'm getting soaked."

They followed a foot-path leading a short distance further into the grounds. Elaborate grave markers dating from the 1800s were dim sentinels in the moonless drizzle. Here and there the smaller, plainer monuments of a later era marked plots filled more recently. A wrought-iron fence separated a large family plot from its neighbors. Mary used a key to open the waist high gate, then continued to far end. She stopped where the Jeep's headlights shone on a pale marble monument carved in the shape of a grieving angel.

Chance knelt to read the inscribed epitaph:

LILLIAN SANDRA WHITE

1936 - 1953

Shed not for her the bitter tear  
Nor give the heart to vain regret  
Tis but mere ashes that lie here  
The gem that filled it sparkles yet.

"Lillian tries to…return home every now and then," Mary said. "She doesn't seem to understand her aunt, my mother, is long gone. She speaks to me as if I were her aunt."

"You mean…this has happened before?" Chance asked. "She…accepts a ride, gets almost home, then vanishes?"

"Since before I was born. I inherited Mom's trailer, but it was Lillian's home, too. Mom adopted Lillilan when her parents were killed in a plane crash. I have the same telephone number Mom had the night Lillian was killed. A drunk driver hit her bicycle on a night very much like this one. Her friend wasn't hurt, but Lillian died before she got to the hospital. I'm sorry you and your friend had to experience this."

The rain had stopped. The moon was out. The wind had diminished to a soft sighing. One final gust slammed the gate shut with a clang that made them all jump. Glancing over his shoulder, Chance thought he saw something gliding away from the family plot, just beyond the light from the Jeep's headlight beams.

A deer, he told himself. Or branches shifting in the moonlight, although there were no trees growing in this part of the cemetery.

The small group turned away from Lillian's headstone. Only when they reached the gate did Chance realize something had been draped over it. There, sparkling dimly in the moonlight, hung the black lace stole Julia had given Chance for Ilsa.


End file.
